


Language Lessons, 4: taarradhin (1200 words)

by ImpOfPerversity



Series: Language Lessons [4]
Category: Baroque Cycle - Neal Stephenson, Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: 1 Sentence Fiction, Languages, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-02-01
Updated: 2005-02-01
Packaged: 2018-11-12 12:07:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11161518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImpOfPerversity/pseuds/ImpOfPerversity





	Language Lessons, 4: taarradhin (1200 words)

  
  
The _Black Pearl_ had sailed north, ever north -- towards heat and sun and light and warmth, so Sparrow (who, by his own admission, had not come this way before: "But I've spoken to many that have, Jack, and you wouldn't _b'lieve_ the tales they tell!") had asserted, though Jack's aching joints and stubbornly English blood whispered to him that north was where the Great Cold lived -- and though it had been weeks since they'd rounded the Cape, all black rock and creamy spray and grey water and ice of every jewell'd wintry shade from white to sapphire to emerald, the sea that bore them on was still as cold as a rich man's heart, and from time to time, when the wind -- that vicious flaying wind -- blew from astern, the lookouts, even after this long haul, hailed "Ship!" and then in moments, abashed, amended it to "Ice!"; their punishment for shaping sails from towering white islands adrift on the current was to stay aloft a little longer, and Jack often saw 'em fall the last few feet to the slippery black deck, half-crippled by the cramping coldness in every sinew of their bodies; _he_ , at least, had the eternal calescence of Jack Sparrow to warm him, sometimes with just a fiery look askance from the helm, sometimes with an amiable word as a gang of them sat below, pallid hands wrapped around cracked bowls of stewed salt meat (Jack had learned not to react, no matter how loaded Sparrow's irreproachable remarks might be; more, he'd learned to reciprocate, and knew the words, now, that would make that dark wicked heat rise in Jack Sparrow's eyes, make him lean closer, all solicitous, and retort in kind, and find how long the two of 'em might tease and torment one another with hidden meaning to every commonplace exchange ("Need more fuel, Captain?" Jack might ask, innocently gesturing at the pot, holding Sparrow's gaze as though he might have _forgotten_ that phant'sy of his concerning the Blaze between 'em; or Sparrow would look straight at Jack while he ate, murmuring some nonsense to himself that would suddenly resolve itself as one of his outlandish words) while Stone, and Joe Turk, and the rest of the company looked on, uncomprehending -- though 'twas certain they understood the nature of Jack Shaftoe's affection for their captain, and its enthusiastic reciprocation, for neither Jack nor Sparrow made the slightest attempt to disguise it -- but heartened by their captain's cheer: and sometimes (often) like _this_ , to lie so close to Jack Sparrow that their bare bodies (Sparrow's sun-darked skin unfaded, never mind that he'd not bared himself to the sun these two months past) slid together under the heaped bedclothes, their breath mingled like ghosts in the lanthorn-light, and between breathless bouts that made Jack's skin flush red like sunburn, they'd talk and laugh together; one of Sparrow's infamous tales, it might be, or Jack's narration of those incidents in his life which might be gilded so's to reflect well (or, failing that, amusingly) upon himself, or their shared speculation as to what lay ahead: "This cold current, Jack, flows up from the Southern Ice, up towards the Equator --"; "Up, in fact, my _leg_ , or was there something you were wanting?"; Sparrow, stretched out alongside Jack, grinned, and spread his palm wide so that one finger just brushed against Jack's temporarily quiescent half-member, and said, "Aye, but I'm not done; and when the current meets the Equator, it turns ... west, and grows warm, mmm, warm as _you_ , and carries us," his fingers tickled their way across Jack's belly, "towards a whole clutch of lovely hospitable islands; fruit on the trees, women all decked out with flowers and keen to make friends -- not that I'm int'rested in _them_ , oh no -- and wicked things they brew for any stranger who comes there, and, oh, Jack, 'tis all free and merry and fine, and just waiting, mate, for you and me; and I -- oh, _why_ not?", this last rather irritably, as Jack twisted out of reach; "'Tis my turn," said Jack, winding his fingers through (or, at least, into) Sparrow's thick hair, and hauling him up for a kiss; oh, he wanted that mouth on him, never not, but he wanted too to have Jack Sparrow at his mercy, to bring him gaspy and muttery and moany to that cliff-edge, to feel Sparrow try to hold back and fail and pour forth, and no matter how Sparrow undulated against him, no matter how his clever hands brought Jack to hardness as he licked his way around every curve and softness of Jack's mouth, Jack was determined to have his way; "Your turn, eh?" murmured Sparrow, tugging at the gold that pierced his earlobe -- so tender, now, and yet healed right quickly for a winter wound -- and then, "But why take turns?"; "Because _I_ want to," said Jack, pouting (and smiling as Sparrow bit at his mouth); "I've a word for you," murmured Sparrow, against Jack's mouth, and Jack groaned and clapped his hand to his forehead, and objected, "I _know_ it, and the same to you, you --"; "Nay, love," Jack Sparrow said softly, pushing himself up and pulling the blankets around him until they made a sort of tent, "that word is **taarradhin** , an' I had it from a spice-merchant, an Arab, who I met in Hindustan;" Jack, recognising all the signs of a Sparrow Anecdote, sighed in a theatrickal manner, and waved a hand, commanding the performance to begin, and Jack Sparrow, laughing at him silently, said only, "I win, and you win;" "Is that _it_?" demanded Jack, eyebrows raised, hands on Sparrow's warm skin to pull him close, "a trader's term? Tara-whatever? I swear your head's full of nonsense, Jack, an'- " and Sparrow leaned in and said, "Ah, but why take turn and turn about, Mr Shaftoe, when with a little application we may give and receive at once?"; Jack, opening his mouth to object, realised what Sparrow was implying, and a molten admixture of lust and memory and anticipation rushed over him, but he held onto Sparrow and demanded, "Say it again!"; Jack Sparrow, laughing silently (at any rate his mouth was wide, and red, and glinting like the embodiment of Jack's appetite) said, " **Taarradhin** , Jack, where both of us win," and without further ado he was twisting and turning -- Jack made some feeble protest as he lunged for the blankets, but despite the blood-sapping cold of the little cabin his heart was not really in it -- until the two of them, swaddled together like one of the less convincing exhibits at Southwark Fair ("two heads, four legs, a monstrous array of scars and decorations!") were arranged just so, Sparrow's incendiary mouth already encompassing Jack's twitching demi-member, Jack's tongue teasing out that well-remembered salacity, their hands knowing and busy upon one another, silent only because this shared exultation went beyond any words: each man determined to last until he'd made the other spend, each man holding back, holding on, wanting to win and wanting the other to win, wanting to end, to spend, together.


End file.
